


welcome to the afterlife, enjoy your brief stay

by kalina16



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Gen, Pietro Maximoff Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4399262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalina16/pseuds/kalina16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the few seconds before Ultron shot them all to hell, Pietro Maximoff knew his decision - he knew he was going to die. So, unbelievably boring or not, he's got no one to blame but himself that he's dead. He just didn't expect the afterlife to be full of people spilling their souls to him, that's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	welcome to the afterlife, enjoy your brief stay

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a bit late, but the ending of Age of Ultron rubbed me the wrong way - and by that I mean I can't believe they'd kill off a perfectly good character and leave us with no sign of bringing him back. So yes, it's been done a hundred times, but here's my take on the Pietro lives AU.
> 
> Thanks to arinhel. melleide for beta-ing, enjoy!

Deciding to die is, surprisingly, one of the easier choices Pietro's ever made. Maybe it's because it is less of a decision to die than it is a decision to save the archer. And the boy. He's definitely only doing this for the boy.

But he knows how this ends. He's been lucky in life - Stark's shell failed to kill him, Strucker's tests failed to kill him, the Avengers failed to kill him (though he doubts that was ever their intention, now). But Ultron's shot is fast and deadly. And Pietro knows fast. There's not enough time to pick up both of them and get out of the way. Not even enough time to find some sort of shield. No, he has only a hundredth of a second's window, and at the end of that window, someone is going to be full of holes.

He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe because of the boy, his eyes wide with fear. Maybe because the archer – Barton – looks so resigned it's sad. Maybe because this is his fault, in a way. Because if he had not been so blind, they would never have even been in the path of the bullets.

He doesn't know why it's so easy to decide. But at the end of that hundredth of a second, he is that someone.

Barton's expression is stunned. Pietro only has time for one last quip before his legs give out, his chest numb with muted agony. The world spins, dirt hard against his cheek as he crashes to the ground, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, a dull roaring in his ears amongst the screams of civilians. One piercing, agonized cry drowns out all the rest, resounding through his head as a pain that has very little to do with the holes clenches in his chest.

He promised her he would come back for her. He promised her – to come back-

_I'm sorry, Wanda._

* * *

Being dead is boring. Incredibly boring. Everything is black and fuzzy and he can't feel anything. That last part, though, that is nice. The last thing he remembers feeling was a lot of pain. He'd rather not do that again.

So the blackness is not so bad, really, even if it's steadily growing colder. The pain is gone, and there is a rare peace, a feeling he hasn't had in a long, long time. It's a nice feeling. Makes him want to stay in the blackness, fade away entirely.

_**Pietro!** _

The voice cuts through the blackness, tugging at his mind. He feels an instinctive urge to respond, but the heaviness weighing down on his limbs prevents him. It's a familiar voice. One he should remember.

_Please, please, Pietro-_

The voice batters against his head, insistent, tearing apart his peace. He wants to tell it to shut up, to go away and leave him alone, but there's something so  _familiar_ , something that clenches in his chest instinctively-

_Kid, c'mon, you need to leave-_

_No, no, I won't-_

_Kid, this isn't going to be pretty-_

The voices are lost to him as his chest explodes in agony, feeling screaming back into his body with a painful lurch. He balks at the sudden wave of intensity, pulling back into the blackness, back where it was quiet and painless and safe-

_Don't you dare, don't you dare leave me-_

There's that voice, again, the one voice that echoes above the others. It's a girl's voice, desperate and full of pain. He wants to comfort her, to make that pained tone go away, but everything's thick and heavy and  _hurts-_

* * *

"You're gonna owe your sister one heck of an apology after this, kid."

Pietro is trapped in the same numb, swirling blackness when the voice reaches him. Everything is fuzzy, detached, as if he's left his body and is simply hovering in space. The empty, floating feeling would strike a chord of panic in him if his mind wasn't so blank.

"Poor girl's worried sick over you."

The voice is male, and somewhat familiar - low and calm, but there's and undercurrent of weariness in it. He feels a pang of disappointment as he realizes it's not the one he's looking for.

He does not even know  _who_  he is looking for, come to think of it.

The man sighs, and he hears a rustling, as if the man's shifting. "You really put my team for a loop, there. Well, I guess that was more your sister with the mind stuff than you – that was some cruel stuff, by the way. Impressive, but cruel. But the speed was tough, I'll be honest."

The man's words stir faint memories in Pietro's mind, but nothing clicks, nothing holds. He can't seem to pin down much of anything.

"You both came through, though, when it mattered," the man continues. "Your hearts are in the right place. I've talked to your sister about this – not that she's listened to much of anyone lately – but there's a place on our team, if you want it."

These words are important, even if he still cannot –  _he can't remember_  – Pietro wants to hit his head in frustration, but even movement escapes him now. It is beyond frustrating, because he  _knows_ this means something, he  _knows_ he needs to reply-

He knows there is someone he needs to find.

"Your sister seems down for it, once you're up," the man says. "She seemed surprised, to be honest. She's pretty torn up about what happened, and her part in it. I'm guessing you are, too, so I'd thought I'd tell you what I told her. Even if you can't-" the man sighs, weary. "Can't hear me right now."

The man has mentioned a sister several times now, and Pietro latches onto the words. A sister, he has a sister-

Right?

Nothing is very clear, right now.

"… I know what it's like, to be made in a lab," the man says, softly. "To wake up and find that you're different – that for better or worse, nothing's ever going to be the same. It's nothing compared to what you've gone through, of course, but I know-" the man's voice hitches. "I know someone who has. Gone through that sort of stuff, I mean. He was my best friend."

The man's voice trails off, taking a shuddering breath.

"And he still is. Because it's not his fault. What happened to him, all the awful things he's done – it's only because he doesn't know anything else. Not anymore. And he – he doesn't deserve that. The blame. It's my fault, for failing him first."

The man gives another weary sigh, and fabric rustles.

"The point is, I understand why you did it. None of us are going to hold that against you." He pauses. "If they know what's good for them," he mutters in an undertone. "You've got the whole world in front of you, kid. And a spot with us, if you want it. So you better do us a favor and get your ass out of bed soon."

Pietro is still processing the man's words when he hears him stand.

"And, uh – don't tell anyone I said that last part," the man says, awkwardly. There's a smooth whine, as if a door's closing, and Pietro feels blackness claiming him again.

The last thing he thinks is that death is very confusing.

* * *

The next time someone wakes him, the air has changed subtly, humming with a low energy as the faint taste of ozone reaches him. He likes it.

"It is a great relief, to see you alive."

The new voice is deep and rich, tinged with an accent Pietro can't place. It's a distinctively male voice, but the speech pattern is markedly different from the last.

It's still not the voice he's looking for.

On the other hand, it confirms something he has been suspecting – he is not, as he thought, dead. Which raises a whole other host of questions, the main one being  _how_.

"You are a brave warrior, despite your youth," the man finally continues. "You have more than proven yourself." The voice lilts, as if the man's smiling. "Perhaps you should try your hand at Mjolnir, when you awaken. She may take more kindly to you this time."

Pietro has no idea what a Mjolnir is, but the man sounds friendly, even if his voice evokes memories of a threat.

"I would thank you for saving the life of our friend, as well," the man continues. "You have saved his family and friends a good deal of grief. Your sister, however…" There's a pause. "It is a good thing you live."

There is the mention of his sister again. A blurry image forms in his mind, dark hair and dark eyes and the color red, a soft voice and cool hands – but blurry. All too blurry.

"Again, you showed great bravery there. It is very impressive, for one who has gone through as much as you. Though I must admit, it is your bond with your sister that I most admire," the man continues, quieter. Sadder. "You two have clearly come through your hardships with strength. Your loyalty to one another…" the man pauses, pain laced in his voice. "One could stand to learn a thing or two from your love for one another."

Pietro has no idea what the man is talking about, but the sadness in his voice in tangible. He feels a stirring of sympathy for him. Another thought pressing, though, is that this is the second person that has decided to bear their soul to him. Maybe there is simply something to be found in telling your secrets to a comatose body? He wonders if they know he can hear them.

Probably not.

"It is better to appreciate that bond now, rather than when it is too late," the man continues, his voice little more than a whisper. Pietro wonders if he, too, had a sister – or a brother? Some sibling, who obviously met a bad end. He wonders if he'll be like that lost sibling, if he never wakes up. If his sister will be the one with a voice hundreds of years old, weighted with sadness and regret.

He begins willing his fingers to move again, fighting against the heavy blackness with all he can.

* * *

"You're kind of a pain in the ass, you know that?"

The new voice is, again, male. He feels a rush of disappointment. Still the wrong voice. It's almost familiar, though, tired but biting and sarcastic. What it lacks in depth compared to the first two, it makes up for with its forceful tones, striking out with unbridled energy.

He immediately decides that he does not like this one half as much as the others.

"You've got some cool powers, sure," the man continues. "But a coma? Really? Not that cool."

Pietro wants to protest that he didn't choose to be in a coma, thank you, and it's not as if he can simply will himself awake from it.

He has tried. Honestly.

"Also, I just thought you should know you're going to owe the Stark Relief Foundation a damn lot of money in hospital bills after this. Hear that? Stark Industries saved your life. How the tables have turned."

The name Stark definitely rings a bell in Pietro's head, bringing to mind a lifetime of hatred and spite. But there are new emotions as well, confused and conflicting and  _everything's turned on its head_  –

His head hurts.

"But yeah, your bills are skyrocketing," the man continues, the sharpness in his tone fading. "So you should really get on waking up soon. Before you get too deep in debt, you know."

Does no one understand?! He. Is. Trying. His fingers just feel like they've suddenly taken on several hundred pounds. He doesn't even want to think about trying to move anything else. His chest is definitely off-limits – from what little memory he has right now, the sudden, biting agony isn't easily forgotten.

"I might owe you an apology, though," the man continues, voice subdued. "I had a chat with your sister. About… stuff. Y'know." He doesn't, right now, because his mind is still a frustratingly tangled mess of fragmented memories, but there' still that feeling of hatred.

"But that was the old me. Not that that excuses anything, I know that, Pepper at least gets that-" the man pauses, sounding pained. "But I know what it's like. Now. To be on the receiving end of the weapons. It really sucks, believe me – except you'd know that, I guess."

Does he? There are memories of pain, of his skin on fire and his bones shifting – he shies away from those – but they are all murky, distant and dream-like.

"Hey. At least you didn't have to hook a car battery to your chest. Could almost say you're lucky." The man sighs. "I don't mean that. 'course you weren't lucky. You grew up in a lab."

There's a heavy pause.

"I know someone else who spent some time as a lab rat, you know that?" the man finally says. "And you can't tell them this – I swear, I  _will_  kill you, for real this time – but they're one of the best people I know." The man trails off again, silent. He gives a short laugh. "Actually, a lot of the people I know got made in a lab. Just wasn't always willing. They're all great people, though. Hell of a lot better than me."

He hopes he can remember all this when he wakes up, so he can connect the voices with the faces. This is an unreasonable amount of blackmail material and far too good to pass up.

"But I'm not really the egoistic tyrannical maniac I'm sure you think I am," the man continues. "At least I hope not. I was pretty bad, yeah, but I got better. Still getting better. I screw up a bit, sure – okay, a lot – but I'm getting better. There's hope for you, that's what I'm getting at. Not a whole lot – you're still an ass – but there's hope."

The man huffs out a short breath, clearly uncomfortable.

"But anyways. So. If there are any more shellings near civilian populations, they won't be Stark's." The man shifts again, and Pietro can hear the sound of leather rustling. "But yeah. Just thought you should know." There are footsteps as Pietro can assume the man's leaving.

"Just… do me a favor and wake up soon. It's the least you can do, 'cause, you know, you owe me now."

* * *

The next time someone speaks to him, he's already conscious. However, he still can't move. His fingers refuse to so much as twitch, and his throat remains stubbornly closed. All he can do is lie here and listen.

He hates lying still.

"I need to thank you."

This voice is feminine, and he feels a spark of hope before realizing it's the wrong one. It's not as accented, too low and silky.

"I don't make it a habit of owing people favors," the woman continues, her voice smooth and controlled. "But…" her voice hitches, and she takes a breath. "I kinda owe you one, now."

Well, that sounds like a good thing, even if Pietro still has  _no idea what anyone is talking about._  He's getting a bit sick of playing the lifeless body people dump their emotions on, even if it is more interesting than laying in the darkness.

"You saved my best friend," she continues. "Did you know that?" She laughs, bitterness seeping into her voice. "I'd have lost him in a second, if you hadn't been there.  _I_ should have been there. We have this deal, you know – we watch each other's backs. It's always a bit of a surprise, having so many other people to watch them, now. All these people that care enough to put their own lives on the line. Takes a lot for someone to do that for someone else."

She sighs again, shifting.

"Which is why I don't understand. Nobody expected you to do that," she says, softly. "No one would have asked you too. You had just as much to lose. So… why?"

Pietro wants to know the answer to that, too. Why did he land himself here? Though it would be the most likely cause, he doesn't think it was for his sister. But it must have – it had to have been important.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this," the woman mutters. She stifles a yawn. "For all I know, your head's still not there." She snorts. "Going by what I'm sure the others have said, I kinda hope you did hear. Could be useful."

"Or it could mean something to you," she continues, yawning again. "Thor and Steve, at least, are good at the inspirational speeches. I don't think I want to know what Tony's said to you. And then there's your sister," she sighs. "She hasn't said much. Then again, she isn't saying much at all these days. It's not nice to leave her hanging like that."

He knows.  _He knows._  If he had the choice, he wouldn't be. If he could have, he would have been replying to these people a  _long_ time ago.

"So wake up already," the woman says, softly. "We've got enough loss around here without you checking out on us too."

* * *

"You're a punk, kid."

_This_ voice is familiar. This voice brings back a surge of annoyance and mischief and  _relief_.

"I saved your life, you ass."

Pietro's eyes fly open –  _they open_ – as he realizes that his voice has returned. And, with a painful recognition as he squeezes his eyes closed against the painfully bright lights, so has control over movement.

"Well, son of a bitch."

Pietro cracks his eyes open warily, staring at the grinning archer sitting beside him.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty."

Pietro blinks, glancing around the room. The walls are a pristine white, and he's surrounded by humming machines and monitors. His eyes follow the tubes that trace into his arms, onto his face. Feeling a twinge of annoyance, he reaches up to pull the tube under his nose off.

"No you don't," Barton snaps, yanking his hand back. "It's been hard enough keeping you alive without you screwing things up."

"Alive," Pietro repeats, staring at him.

"Yup," Barton says, a brief shadow crossing his face. "You cut it pretty close there."Pietro takes a breath, wincing at the aching in his chest. Pretty close sounds about right.

"Uh – thanks, by the way," Barton continues, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "For, you know, saving me and stuff."

Pietro blinks, and his memory comes flooding back. Leaving Strucker, joining Ultron, betraying Ultron, fighting hundreds of metal robots in a city in the sky, Barton standing with the boy and the bullets closing in, then unbelievable pain and _Wanda_ -

"My sister," he gasps, sitting up abruptly – only to fall back with a cry as his chest flares in pain. Barton's hands fly to his shoulder, firm but gentle as they ease him back down, a frown on his face.

"Cool it, kid, your sister's fine, geez –  _you_ , on the other hand-" A small cry cuts Barton off, echoing through the room.

"Aw, c'mon," Barton mutters, reaching down to small carrier Pietro's just noticed. "You woke him up." Pietro stares at the tiny, squirming baby Barton gently pulls out of a small baby-carrier, watching as he cradles the fussing child in his arms, attempting to calm him.

"You have a son?" Pietro asks, faintly, still staring at the baby.

"Yup," Barton says, not looking up from his child. "Two, now, actually. And a daughter."

"Oh," Pietro says. Barton has three children, three people waiting from him to come home from his fights alive.

He thinks he's found a reason why, now.

"Yeah," Barton says, finally looking up at him. "This is Nathaniel. Here, say hi." Barton lifts the baby's tiny hand, as if to wave at him. Pietro gives a tiny, pathetic wave back, staring at the baby. Its –  _his_  – face is small and round and chubby, scrunched up against the bright lights of the hospital room. The baby's eyes flutter open, curious and a deep blue.

"He is cute," Pietro finally says, resisting the urge to poke the baby's cheeks.

"Takes after his mother," Barton says. "And his aunt. We named him after Natasha – red-haired ninja lady, you know?" Pietro nods, snatches of weary words echoing in his mind. Barton shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat.

"And, ah, I'm gonna regret this, probably, but his middle name's Pietro."

Pietro's head snaps up, eyes wide.

"Yeah," Barton says, laughing lightly. "Nathaniel Pietro Barton. Give him a name to be proud of. He can remember the two people that saved his dad's ass."

Pietro looks back at the tiny baby, entirely at a loss. There's an odd lump in his throat, and his eyes are burning.

"So," Barton says, clapping him lightly on the shoulder with his free hand. "You better stay alive, or my kid's gonna be pretty disappointed he never got to know his speed freak namesake."

Pietro nods, forcing the burning in his eyes back. He thinks he should say something. But thank you seems out of place, and nothing else really seems adequate-

The door slams open. Both Pietro and Barton jerk around to stare at the wide-eyed, panting girl in the doorway, her face caught in an expression of pain and joy.

" _Pietro,"_ Wanda breathes, her eyes shimmering with tears. Pietro's eyes burn again, but this time, he does not try to stop it.

_Here_  is the voice he is looking for.

"Sister-" his reply is choked off as Wanda throws herself at him, arms wrapping around him as she sobs into his chest, clinging to him as if never to let go. Pietro returns her hug, the pain in his chest nothing compared to the joy of seeing his sister.

"Kid, he's still hurt – watch the IV –" Barton stutters in the background. Wanda ignores him, only clinging to Pietro tighter. "Aw, to hell with it."

Pietro grins. Yes, he is still a mess of a person who has made a mess of things. But so are these people, apparently. And if one of them can name his son after  _him…_  then maybe -  _maybe -_ they have finally found a place to belong.


End file.
